Tears of Rage
by ryanalicia
Summary: When Christine loses her angel, she yearns to know the man, but his pain stands between them. She vows to shatter all the walls that keep his pain hidden, but will their love stand the strain? (A little dark, but, as always, a happy ending).
1. Chapter 1

Tears of Rage

By ryanalicia

CHAPTER ONE

_"You little viper."_

Christine drew back at the sudden rage on her angel's face and reached out a tentative hand to return his mask.

He slapped her offer away.

"You think it's that simple?" he bellowed. "You've ruined everything!"

"I..I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"You did exactly what you meant. You meant to humiliate me."

"No, angel. Never."

He reached over and grabbed her wrist, pulling her to him. "Do you know what happens to wayward children?" His voice was deceptively smooth, when she knew the anger that boiled within him.

"No?" he said into her silence. "Let me show you."

He sank down onto the piano bench, pulled her around to his right side and then dragged her across his knees.

Christine gasped in horror as she realized his intent. She began to struggle against him "You can't," she breathed. "You can't do this. Please, angel."

"Your angel was a lie. There is only me."

He released her wrists and used that hand to jerk up the back of her dress. The other hand pulled down her underclothes. She could feel the cold draft on her bare bottom.

The first blow caught her unawares because she still hadn't believed he would do it. It was hard and made her cry out.

"Don't think to get pity from me," he responded. "You are a heartless child."

Another blow followed the second and then another.

Tears began to streak her cheeks at the humiliation of it all.

Two more blows and then his hand stopped against her skin. He began to gently rub his palm over her burning bottom.

She whimpered at the smooth caress, and then cried all the more because she was being a fool. There was no gentleness here. He only wanted to further embarrass her.

But his touch continued, now running down the backs of her thighs.

She shook her head; she didn't want this.

"Please stop," she cried.

"I'll stop when you've been truly punished," he said.

One of his fingers slid between her clenched legs, running up and down. Then it slid higher, and Christine squeaked. "What are you doing?"

"Punishing you."

He spread her legs apart and ran his finger along her folds.

Christine cried, but vowed not to beg him again. He was determined to see this through – if she only knew what 'this' meant.

His finger slid deeper, and she was shocked that it met no barrier. Her flesh was wet and willing. He slipped that dangerous finger inside her and began to gently stroke.

"Ahh," she gave a strangled cry. How could that feel good?

"It seems the student wants her teacher," he commented.

"Why?" she asked. "Why must you do this to me?"

"We suffer together, you and I – loneliness and now humiliation." He rubbed some place within her that made her gasp. "And, it would seem, desire."

"No," she said, shaking her head, denying it to them both.

He removed his hand and caressed her once more.

"Get up," he told her.

She dropped down onto her knees and then stood to straighten her clothes.

"Did I say to get re-dressed?"

Surely he didn't mean to force himself on her, she thought in a sudden moment of panic.

"Come here," he said, reaching out to catch one of her hands in his own. He drew her down onto his lap so that her back was to his chest. She could feel his hardness, and it both frightened and thrilled her.

Then he pulled up her dress once more and began to stroke her again. This time he found another spot with which to torture her. His gentle caress against it forced a moan from between her lips.

"That's it, my little Christine," he said. "Show me you are not the child you pretend."

"I…I don't know what you mean."

He pulled her back against him and, against her will, she melted into the hard wall of his chest. This put more of her weight against his questing fingers, increasing the pressure. It mirrored the increasing pressure she felt within. How could she open herself to this man this way? Horror invaded her thoughts but would not stay.

"What are you doing to me?" she asked.

He slipped a finger inside her again and didn't answer. With his thumb rubbing her flesh and his other finger inside her wetness, she felt powerless now to protest. She didn't want to protest; she wanted to writhe. Tentatively, she moved against him. It brought her flesh down deeper onto his probing hands and rubbed her against his erection. She heard him gasp behind her, and the sound gave her a perverse pleasure. Truly, they did suffer together.

When she could no longer help herself, she laid her head back against his shoulder and began to plead with him.

"Begging me, my little Christine?" His voice was harsh.

"Yes…" she gasped out. "Yes, I'm begging you."

His fingers began to move faster, and she clenched her eyes shut until the moment she didn't know she'd been waiting for crashed over her like a wave onto the shore. She felt her body convulse around his fingers, felt them still sliding in and out of her wetness.

"Stop," she said. "I can't take anymore."

The fingers stilled and then moved to the outside of her thigh.

"You are beautiful," he whispered into her ear. "Did I hurt you too much?"

She shook her head. She could remember no pain.

"I won't say I'm sorry."

She shook her head again.

"Your angel knows only the beauty of music, but the man in me knows only rage. Rage at the world and everyone in it. Sometimes it controls me."

She wanted to ask if his desire was always laced with rage, if it would be now, but her fear overcame her need to know him.

"Will you take me back now?" she asked.

He nodded and put her on her feet.

Her legs felt like pudding.

She didn't cry all the way back, but as soon as she was through the mirror, she threw herself on her bed and let the tears pour out – tears for the death of her angel.

The next day at rehearsal, she was re-cast into another girl's smaller part, and Carlotta was back as the lead. She already knew her part well, so rehearsal was a lot of standing about – for which she was grateful because, as she'd discovered that morning, sitting was a little uncomfortable.

At her dressing table, brushing her hair, she'd been reminded by the throb of her skin of all the phantom had done to her. Her exquisite, untouchable, unknowable angel had been a lie, but she'd shed her tears for him. Something the phantom had said last night had stuck with her, and she realized now that the angel was the fantasy of a child. And she was no longer a child. Such a fantasy was no longer to be afforded to her. Now she had to deal with the man.

Oh, if only he were just a man, she thought. She had little enough experience dealing with men, but the phantom was her teacher, her virtuoso, her voice. She might not know him, but she knew his music, and she loved it – loved that part of him.

Raoul's sudden appearance distracted her from her thoughts. He was there to take her to lunch, and she happily acquiesced.

"Tell me, little Lotte," he said, when they were seated at the café, "what brings such a lovely blush to your cheeks?"

The fact that he noticed and asked made her blush even more. She'd been thinking of the phantom and his ministrations.

She looked over at Raoul and somehow couldn't see him ever dragging her into his lap and making her climax in his arms. But Raoul was a good man – that much she knew. She should be interested in a good man – only in a good man.

Lunch passed companionably, and Raoul returned her to the theater with a kiss on her hand and a promise to see her after the opera's next performance.

Back in her dressing room, she wasn't surprised to hear his voice from behind the mirror.

"Will you now throw away all that we have, Christine? Have I chased you into the arms of your insipid viscount?"

"He is a childhood friend, nothing more."

"Don't lie to me, when I can see possession written in his features. He figures you to be his."

Did he? She wasn't astute at noticing such things. Especially when her own feelings didn't correspond.

"What should I call you now?" she asked. "There is no more angel."

It was a long time before he answered. "You may call me Erik."

"May we skip our lesson tonight, Erik? I promise tomorrow night we can return to our schedule."

"Alright," he said, agreeing much more quickly than she'd expected. "Tomorrow night, then."

"And Erik?" she called out.

"Yes?"

"I see no reason for you to hide behind my mirror any longer. We should practice at your piano."

Another long hesitation. "As you wish."

She heard his footsteps retreat and knew it was only because he allowed it. When he'd been her angel, his every movement had been silent.

When she knew he'd gone, she left her dressing room and made her way to Madame Giry's small apartment.

"Christine," she said, seeming startled to see the girl at her door after working hours.

"May I come in, Madame Giry?"

"Of course, dear. Is something the matter? I know you've had a trying time the last few days. You mustn't let it get to you."

A trying time. She had no idea. Or maybe she had some idea.

"You know who my tutor is," Christine declared.

Madame Giry said nothing.

"Please," Christine said. "Be honest with me. I know he's the phantom."

"Ah, so he's made himself known to you."

Christine nodded. "But not really known. I only see a man who's part anger and part music. I want to know what drives him. Can you tell me? I feel as if I have none of the pieces."

"His story should be his to tell."

Christine shook her head. "He's angry with me. I'm afraid he'll never tell me anything now. I made a terrible blunder."

Madame Giry sighed. "Yes, you must be careful with him. He's fragile, for all he tries to play the omnipotent ghost."

"But why?"

"Can't you guess?" Madame Giry asked. "He's had his deformity since birth. When I met him, he was kept in a cage in a travelling freak show, forced to pull off the sack he wore as a mask to frighten tremulous children." She shuddered. "He cowered in the corner until a man came in to expose him to us. The rest of the crowd jeered and threw things at him."

She sat down in a small chair.

"When I next saw him, he was free, skulking between two tents. I slipped away from my friends and showed him how to enter the cellars of the opera house." She shook her head. "I thought only to give him a temporary place to hide. I had no idea he'd feel doomed to live here – underground-for the rest of his days. First he took the opera as his purpose, providing plans for its renovation, the designs for set pieces. For his efforts, he demanded a salary from the owners – a salary they have always paid."

"But it wasn't just for his services, was it?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "He's taken on the role of the imperious opera ghost, and when he doesn't get his way, well, things happen."

"What kind of things?"

"The more practical minded among the company call them 'accidents', but those who believe in the opera ghost know the truth of it. He costs the managers more than his salary if he does not get his way. And he's occasionally caused injury. Last year he demanded the third violin be let go, and when the managers didn't comply, the violinist turned up with a broken hand, blaming the opera ghost."

"Is he…is he evil, Madame Giry?"

"I do not know, dear girl. I barely knew the boy, and I do not know the man. We have a certain amount of trust between us, and I serve him because I know his situation. You must have a better idea than I of the man he's become."

Christine pondered this as she went back to her room.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

He came for her right after rehearsal ended, and led her, without speaking, back down into his lair.

When they'd reached the other side of the lake, he gave her a hand up and motioned toward a small table set with a plate and glass.

"I thought you might like dinner first," he said.

She walked over, surveying the offering of roasted chicken, green beans and a buttered croissant. She sat down on a low sofa and took a sip from the glass of white wine.

"Will you not be dining with me?"

He shook his head. "The mask makes it…awkward."

With that he turned from her and went to sit at his piano. A comforting love song wafted through the air on precise notes. As Christine again raised her wine glass, this time to finish off her dinner, the notes turned harsh and she read betrayal behind their tones. Would he always find betrayal under every kindness?

Had she shown him any kindness? The thought pierced her, and she went to stand behind him, putting her hands on his shoulders. It hurt her when he flinched from her touch. She tried again, more gently this time, and though he paused in his playing, he did not pull away.

"Play something else," she requested. "Play something beautiful."

"You've destroyed beauty," he whispered.

"I don't believe that. You want it too badly. Play something and let me sing for you."

He sighed and nodded for her to take her place at the side of the piano.

She was reluctant to break contact, but did as he directed.

She knew by the time she was done that she'd never sung so well. She felt her eyes shining and saw the same when she met her phantom's heated gaze.

"Well, teacher?"

"You'll no longer need a teacher if you can keep doing that," he said.

She shook her head. "I'll always need you. I sing for you."

"What about your viscount?" he sneered.

"He does not…inspire me."

She saw him relax.

"Tell me, Erik – how did you wind up in a travelling carnival? Madame Giry didn't know."

He sucked in a breath. "How dare she! How dare you!" He slammed his hands down on the keys, creating a dissonance that matched his mood and made her jump. "Is there no end to the ways you intend to hurt me?"

"I intend to know you."

He looked up at her with pained eyes. "You should never have to know me, Christine. Don't you see that I would spare you that? Let me, at least, do that much for you."

"I want to know your pain, Erik."

He stood up. "No!" The piano bench fell over backwards, and he bent to right it.

"Tell me – did they beat you? The people at the carnival?"

His mouth dropped open. "Why are you doing this?"

"Did they spit on you? I know they made you wear a mask. I know they made you take it off."

He crossed the distance between them and grabbed her by both wrists. He shook her as he spoke. "Yes, and you would do the same, would you? Expose my face? Expose my soul?" He shook her again. "It is blacker than you imagine."

"I don't believe that."

He dragged her to him, pulling her against his body so she could feel his desire. "Would you have me prove it to you? Is that what you want? To break my control?"

"Yes," she said on a trembling breath.

He crushed her mouth to his. "Why do you tempt me like a precocious child?"

She shook her head and returned his kiss. When he lifted his lips, she replied, "I am no child, Erik. Isn't that why you finally revealed yourself? Don't you want the woman?"

He growled and took possession of her mouth again. His hand went roughly to her breast. He squeezed hard, and Christine knew she'd be bruised tomorrow, but she didn't mind. She'd asked for this.

He quickly swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bed, dropping her unceremoniously on the covers. Before she could react, he was on his knees in front of her, spreading her legs.

She heard him gasp when he realized she wore no underclothes.

"Heartless child," he asked, "will you now be my heartless whore?"

He slid her dress down onto her hips and dipped his head between her legs.

Christine hadn't imagined it would be possible to be violent in such an act, but violent he was. His mouth consumed her, sucking on her, biting her – not hard, but she never knew what sensation to expect next. She only knew that she'd never felt so utterly possessed. When he thrust his tongue into her, she heard herself cry out.

"That's it, little Christine. Show me what I do to you."

Oh, god, she thought, it seemed like he was stealing her soul. She felt herself approaching the same glorious point she'd reached last night, and she began to moan his name. It felt so right across her lips.

But he was still angry, and she vowed not to give satisfaction while he was still bitter. She wanted him to burn his anger out. So she cried out to him, keeping his name on her lips, and eventually it seemed that she reached the man within. His lips gentled so that there was no accompanying pain.

"Call for me again, Christine," he directed, his voice soft.

"Please, Erik," she responded.

He slid a finger inside her and began to move it in time to gently sucking on her swollen flesh.

It was the moment she'd been waiting for. She groaned into his touch and let desire spiral out of control, rewarding her gentle lover.

He raised his head to look at her, all the anger gone from his gaze. "You purposely pushed me, Christine. I don't understand."

"You think that anger is all you have to offer, and I'm proving to you that it's not true – and that I can take your anger. You don't have to be careful with me or try to spare me your pain. I can share it. I willingly share it."

He seemed more shaken than she when they rose from the bed. On the other side of the lake, he looked down at her. "Can you find your own way back? Take the lantern?"

She nodded and went ever upward toward her room.

This time there were no tears. This time her plan was clear. And her goal was inching closer.

The next night, there was no Erik waiting for her. She took that as a good sign. She wanted him confused. She just wished she'd gotten him to show her how to open the mirror.

It only took a few minutes for her to find – not so difficult once you knew it must be there.

Inside she lit a lantern and began her descent. Her purloined prop hung around her elbow, and she knew a moment of doubt. But then she squared her shoulders. He needed to vent his rage once and for all, and, in truth, there was nothing he did to her that she didn't love. Was that the hallmark of love? She thought so. And she loved him with the same ferocity that he loved her. It was only his hurt that stood between them.

When she reached the edge of the lake, she called out to him. "Erik, are you there?"

She saw him rise from the piano, but noted she hadn't heard him playing. He'd just been sitting there.

"Christine – you shouldn't be here."

"Come and get me, Erik."

He obeyed, bringing the bow of the boat aground right at her feet. He offered her his hand, and she took it without hesitation.

The way back was shared in silence, until he helped her out on the other side and noticed what she held.

He sucked in a sharp breath. "What the hell is that?" he demanded.

"I would think you know very well what it is."

"A whip. Have you come to add to my scars? To punish me?"

She shook her head and handed the whip to him. He took it as if it were a living thing that might jump up and attack.

Then she undid the ties of her nightdress, let it fall to the floor, and stepped naked out of the puddle of fabric.

His gaze grew heated as he stared at her. "Christine…"

"I want you to use it on me," she explained.

"Christine, no."

She walked over to him and jerked the mask off his face.

He immediately raised his hand to hide his features. "Christine!"

"I want your pain, Erik. I want every pain that you felt then; I want every pain you still feel." She stepped close and put her hand against the perfectly formed side of his face. "Did they beat you? Do they beat you still in your dreams at night? Show me."

She turned and walked a few yards away from him, standing with her back straight, arms at her sides. She pulled her hair over one shoulder and waited for him to act.

She heard him moving and then the tip of the whip hitting the floor.

The first lash burned a course straight from the back of her neck, down her spine to the middle of her back. She grunted, but didn't cry out.

"Again, Erik," she insisted.

This blow came harder, landing diagonally across her shoulders.

She didn't have to urge him after that. He rained lashes across her back – ten in all.

When she turned, he was the one that was crying.

He threw the whip to the floor between them and dropped to his knees. She dropped down before him and wrapped her arms around his quaking frame.

He let his hands rest on her hips, but put his face against her neck and cried great sobs until he could cry no more.

"Is that what you wanted from me?" he asked, tentative and shaken.

She nodded. "Yes, Erik."

"Why, Christine? Why?" He sounded so lost.

"Because I wanted to demolish all the barriers that kept your pain in check. I needed to know you in order to love you, Erik. And you left me no other way – no other way to get to you."

"You know I love you," he whispered. "Why couldn't that have been enough?'

"Because you wanted me to love the phantom. And I want to love Erik."

He shuddered. "And now? How can you feel anything for me but hate?"

She nuzzled her cheek against his wispy hair. "Your face doesn't matter; the hurts you've given me don't matter. I love everything about you, Erik."

He raised his head and ran a hand ever so gently down her back. "They won't scar," he said. "They aren't deep."

"I know," she whispered. "I know you'd never do me lasting harm."

He shook his head. "Not for the world."

"I'm sorry I made you do this," she said. "I just couldn't think of any other way."

"No, it's alright. I've inflicted pain before, but I've never had anyone share my pain with me. No one has ever wanted to know me in that way – in any way."

She caressed the expanse of his back with her small hands. "And can I now know you in another way?"

He looked up at her and she gave a gentle smile.

A breath of air whooshed out of him, and he closed his eyes, holding himself still.

Christine put her hands around his neck to pull him down to her. Still, his eyes remained closed.

She dotted his mouth with the softest kisses, and then pressed her lips more fully to his. He opened his mouth on a gasped breath, and she teased his lips to move in time with hers. And then they were kissing – kissing as chastely as new lovers on a city street. Caring, but not daring.

Erik took her face in his hands and began to kiss her cheekbones, her eyelids, her forehead.

She moved her mouth more urgently against him when he returned his lips to hers, but he would not be hurried.

She moved her hands to his throat and began undoing his shirt buttons. "I want to touch you, Erik," she whispered.

He deepened their kiss, and pulled free of his shirt when she'd completed her task.

Christine ached to touch him everywhere. She laid her hands flat against his chest, and then extended her fingers, running them along the edges of his collarbone.

Her hands drifted lower, across his nipples, and he gave a little hiss against her lips. She moved to caress his arms, and he did the same, slowly running his fingertips over her skin and finally around to her breast. He cupped it in his palm and stroked her nipple with his thumb, making her moan at the new sensation.

Then he bent his head and let his tongue take the place of his finger. She cried out and pulled his head closer to her, wanting more. But he was delicate with her, his tongue running small circles around her skin. Finally, he nipped her with his teeth and sucked more of her into his mouth.

"Yes," she cried.

His other hand moved so he could trace delicate patterns on her abdomen. Christine tried to press herself to him, but he kept her at a distance, kept lightly touching her.

"Erik," she moaned, "please."

He stood and pulled her up with him, and she took the opportunity to look at his naked chest. It was smooth, and heaved up and down with the strain of desire he was trying to keep from her.

He moved close, picked her up and carried her to his bed.

This time he only sat her on its edge.

"I don't want to hurt your back," he said.

She scooted herself back against the pillows. "Your pain is my pain, remember? You don't have to worry about hurting me."

"I don't want hurt to be a part of this," he answered.

"A little hurt will always creep in, Erik. It's too much a part of who you are. Let it be."

He looked at her a long time before nodding. Then he undressed, and it was Christine's turn to gape.

He smiled and resumed his place on the bed between her legs – the same spot he'd held last night. This time, his kisses were soft and lingering; his tongue heavy but gentle.

"Oh, Erik," she sighed. She felt her bones turning to water and leaned back to writhe her head against the pillow.

"Christine?" he asked.

"Oh god, yes," she stammered. "Please."

He moved up her body, and she looked at him as he held himself over her – so scarred, but so strong. Her lover. Her love. She nodded to him, and held her breath as he slid between her thighs.

There was a moment of pain – nothing, in comparison, and then he was sheathed within her. She grasped her fingers hard into the muscles of his back and felt them start to move beneath her hands as he began to move within her.

He stared down into her eyes, his blue gaze burning her, bringing her pleasure higher. With each thrust, she learned to match him, and when pleasure rose to claim her, she didn't hold back, biting slightly into the skin where his shoulder met his neck.

"Yes," he groaned. "Mark me, Christine. Claim this scarred body as yours."

He thrust harder, and she bit down, tasting blood. "I claim your soul as mine," she whispered. "Mine to love."

He crushed his lips to hers and cried his release into her mouth. When he stilled above her, she looked up at him.

"I love you, Erik."

"I…I didn't know. Even in my dreams it wasn't like this, Christine. Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Erik. Love me."

He kissed her gently. "With all my heart – all my body and all my soul. I'm only yours, forever."

She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him deeper into her. "Now you have a place you belong, Erik." She smiled her happiness up at him. "Now we both do."

_fin_


End file.
